


Harry Potter and the Scarf of Sexual Preference

by ChannelTheFlannel



Category: A Very Potter Musical, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Flirting, Coming Out, Crack Treated Seriously, Gay Male Character, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, LGBTQ Themes, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Ridiculous, Secret Crush, The Marauder's Map
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5078239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChannelTheFlannel/pseuds/ChannelTheFlannel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Harry's eighth year, and he no longer has the constant threat of Voldemort to keep him busy. So, he goes back to doing what he always does, which is obsessing over Draco Malfoy.<br/>It's unhealthy. It's strange. And, according to his friends, more than a little bit gay. It's a problem, and Harry is in complete denial.<br/>Obviously, the only solution is to go to Dumbedore for help. And he has the perfect thing for it, too--a magical, rainbow, talking scarf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry Potter and the Scarf of Sexual Preference

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a Very Potter Musical, but it takes place in the regular Harry Potter universe (besides of course the fact that it does not tie into the plot line). So, while the characters here are ridiculous, they are not Starkid ridiculous. Just slightly over the top ridiculous.

"He's staring at the Map again," Hermione muttered under her breath. She sounded annoyed.

"I noticed," Ron whispered back, equally exasperated. 

Harry ignored them. He _had_ to figure out what Malfoy was up to. He knew that the exuse had gotten old after the entirety of sixth year, but to him, it was still a very pressing issue. 

Malfoy was still in the Slytherin common room, with Zabini and Parkinson. Harry just had to wait until Malfoy wandered out alone, to carry out his evil deed...

"Merlin, Harry," Hermione sighed. "Can't you let it go? He's innocent. You even testified at his trial!" 

 Without even bothering to look up, he replied, "I know. But he's still Malfoy, and I get a strange feeling in my gut whenever I see him." His heart jumped in his chest when he saw that Parkinson and Zabini were finally leaving Malfoy. "I have to listen to my gut. He's still up to something!" he insisted, that gut feeling returning once more.

And what a strange feeling it was. Whenever he was nearby or thinking of Malfoy, his stomach started doing flips and spins, and he couldn't think of anything else. The only explanation he had was that his conscience was trying to tell him something, so he was always watching Malfoy. 

"You're being ridiculous, mate." Ron set down the book he had been attempting to read with a huff. "I'm going to bed," he announced. "Have fun stalking Malfoy, Harry."

"Thank you, I will," Harry replied stiffly, his heart thumping in anticipation as he saw Malfoy's dot on the map begin to move out of his common room. "And you'll thank me when I figure it out!"

"Oh, I know I will," Hermione replied, rolling her eyes. "I just think you're a little too blind right now to figure it out."

He ignored her again. Malfoy was out in the dungeons, now. Harry had to go and see what he was doing, of course. He got up and ran to catch him.

* * *

 When he was gone, Hermione sighed heavily. She felt sorry for poor Harry. By now, everyone was wondering about him, especially after his break-up with Ginny. 

Was Harry gay? She didn't know. She and Ron had been trying to figure it out, but it was difficult. Not even Harry knew, it seemed; his obsession with Malfoy could have very well been rooted out of pure suspicion. But she doubted it, and so did Ron.

And if Ron could pick up on something, then it was pretty fucking obvious.

There was only one way to find out, she supposed, though, if they really wanted proof.

Slightly remiss to leave her studies behind, she stood up to go to the Headmistress' office. She would have to have a quick chat with Professor McGonagall, but it was really Dumbledore's portrait that she wanted to talk to. 

Yes, Dumbledore would know what to do. 

She hurried out of the common room, not bothering to worry after Harry and his sudden disappearance. He was definitely stalking Malfoy, so she knew it was perfectly harmless. As far as she could tell, Malfoy's biggest offence since the war ended was making eyes with Harry from across the Great Hall.

She supposed everyone had their coping mechanisms.

Once she was at the Headmistress' office, she quickly murmured the password. Being an Eighth Year, and being Hermione Granger, she had certain priveleges. In this case it was having access to McGonagall.

Treading down the stairs, she called out, "It's me, Headmistress!"

"Come in, dearie," McGonagall called back. "I'm just grading essays." A nuance in her tone showed she wasn't entirely pleased about that.

Hermione entered the office, finding McGonagall just as she said she was. She was bent over an essay and marking it with a red-inked quill, a snarl set on her lips. A cup of sweet smelling tea steamed beside her.

"What can I help you with?" she asked, crossing something out with a sharp slash of her quill. "Are your classes boring you again?" 

Hermione frowned, taking a seat in front of the desk. "Actually, I'm here about Harry."

"Harry?" McGonagall inquired. She scribbled a note on the bottom of the page and smiled ever so slightly. "How is he? He hasn't visited me once you know." She tutted and shook her head. 

"Not fantastic, I'm afraid."

The Headmistress looked up sharply and set the quill down. "He's not one of the students overdosing on Dreamless Sleep, is he?" Her face paled slightly and her fingers curled on the desk top.

Hermione shook her head adamantly. "It's not so serious, I promise. No drugs or trauma involved," she assured her.

McGonagall sighed and picked up her quill, marking the essay and moving it into a different pile. "Oh, wonderful. So, that leaves two options left." She made a quick note on the new essay. "Either he's been promoting new Weasley Wheezes products, or he's done something stupid to get Mr. Malfoy's attention."

"How did you know?" Hermione queried, blinking. "About Malfoy, I mean."

"Anyone with eyes can see the way those two leer at each other," McGonagall scoffed. "What about it?"

"Well, I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore's portrait."

As if on cue, Dumbledore popped into one of the frames. 

"Miss Granger!" he exclaimed happily. "What can we help you with?" Jovial and bouncy, as always.

Headmistress McGonagall turned in her chair to face Dumbledore's portrait. 

"It's time we had the talk with Harry, Albus," she said gravely. 

"'The talk?'" Hermione inquired, leaning forward in her chair.

Portrait-Dumbledore pushed his glasses up his nose.

"Yes, my dear. 'The talk' where we sit down with Harry and confront the part of himself that he has been denying for years." He spoke matter-of-factly, a smile lighting in his eyes. 

"And what would that be?" Hermione demanded, thinking she knew what it was. 

"You tell us, dearie," McGonagall prompted her. 

So, Hermione did. She told them all about Harry's obsessive talk about Malfoy, the staring contests across the Great Hall, the stalking...

Oh, Harry was going to _kill_ her.

* * *

The next day, Harry was having breakfast in the Great Hall. It was hard, however, to focus on breakfast when Malfoy was glaring at him all the way across the great hall. 

Malfoy was drinking his coffee, which Harry by now knew that he always had with two scoops of sugar and more milk than coffee. He only knew that because there were certain things one picked up after long periods of observation, of course. 

Harry bit into his toast as he and Malfoy made eye contact. Malfoy gracefully took a long sip, set down his cup, and smirked. 

"Oh, stop staring at him, will you?" Ron insisted with a groan. "It does absolutely _nothing_."

"I'm breaking him," Harry replied determinedly, watching as Malfoy set down his drink and began cutting at his ham. His fingers were so long and graceful, perfect for... For torturing someone, he guessed. 

That strange feeling buzzed in his gut again. 

"Breaking him for _what_?" Ron demanded, seeming terribly exasperated. 

"You wouldn't understand," Harry replied dryly, "considering that _you_ actually believe he's innocent." He took another bite of toast and spent a long time chewing, getting distracted as Malfoy began whispering with Zabini. 

Unease and suspicion settled within him. They were definitely plotting something. 

"Oh, I think _you're_ a whole lot more _innocent_ than Malfoy," Ron grumbled. "At least Malfoy knows what he's doing! You're clueless!" 

"I know what I'm doing!" Harry protested. "I'm getting down to bottom of Malfoy's business."

Ron scoffed. "You sure are, Harry." He shook his head and went back to eating his bacon. 

Harry focused back on Malfoy and Zabini. Now, Zabini was waggling his eyebrows at Harry, and Malfoy had shoved his plate aside and was burying his head in his arms on the table.

"Shit," Harry grumbled. "They know I'm onto them."

"You're fucking clueless!" Ron cried desperately, throwing his fork onto the table. It clattered around and splattered onto Neville's plate, who just sighed.

"I am not," Harry snapped. "I can _see_ evil when it's right in front of me, Ron." 

Neville cut in, then. "Harry, why don't you just go talk to him?" he suggested kindly.

Oh, Neville. Sweet, naive Neville.

"I can't do that, Nev," Harry replied, looking away from the Slytherin table. "People don't just reveal their plots to you if you ask them!" he cried.

"Maybe you've got him all wrong, Harry," Neville replied, looking behind him at the Slytherin table. "I mean, he looks pretty eager..."

Malfoy was licking his lips now as Harry regained eye contact. Zabini was laughing hysterically now, and pounding his fist on the table. Parkinson was just scowling. 

"He's taunting me!" Harry cried, incredulous. Malfoy just kept getting bolder and bolder, _the git._

"He's not taunting you," Hermione said, appearing behind him. 

He spun around to face her. "Come on, 'Mione. You're smart! Why can't you see that Malfoy is _clearly_ plotting?" he demanded.

No one believed him. Not even Hermione! 

"He _is_ plotting," Hermione grumbled in agreement. "Just probably not what you think." She placed her hands on her hips, and said, "We need to talk, Harry."

He saw out of the corner of his eye that Malfoy had left. 

"Not now, Hermione!" he exclaimed. "I have Runes with Malfoy next, and he's always there fifteen minutes early. I have to go!" He moved to get up and chase after him. 

"Since when did you even give a fuck about Runes?" Ron demanded.

"Since Malfoy did!" Harry replied hastily, swinging his bag over his shoulder. "It must tie into one of his evil plots!" he proclaimed as he darted out of the Great Hall. 

He rushed to the Runes classroom. Just as he suspected, Malfoy was already there, his feet kicked up on the desk, reading his textbook with that awful smirk as he peeked up at Harry. 

"You look sharp this morning, Potter," he replied casually, returning to his book. 

Harry felt that hot feeling bubble up inside of him. 

"You, too, Malfoy," he replied hastily, sitting down at the desk next to him. "Sharp enough to _kill someone,_ " he added meaningfully as he pulled out his own book. 

"Oh, Potter," Malfoy chuckled. "You never fail to amuse me."

Harry just snorted and began to pretend to read his book. He was actually just watching Malfoy carefully out of the corner of his eye. He caught him watching back--clearly, neither of them trusted each other. 

Harry never understood anything in Runes class, whereas Malfoy was fucking brilliant at it. It was completely unfair, especially when they were partnered up and they had to sit closer to each other and collaborate.

How was Harry even supposed to focus with evil-doer Draco Malfoy breathing down his neck? With their hands that close to each other? It was bloody impossible.

And Malfoy was obviously plotting to use the Runes for something. That's why he smirked whenever Harry asked about it.

"I'll figure you out yet, Malfoy," he growled, unintentionally out loud. 

"Oh, come now, Potter," Malfoy replied in a infuriatingly low tone. "It's not that hard. Look, here. See these two runes?" He pointed to two separate runes, which were on different parts of the page.

Harry honed in on what he was saying. He had a feeling Malfoy was about to reveal part of his plan to him... Probably just toying with him... 

"Didn't the professor say that they were opposites?" Harry asked, recognizing them from yesterday's lesson. 

"Oh, they are," Malfoy replied, moving in too close to him, his breathing burning hot breath into his ear, "but if you look closely, they share the same major base strokes. So, if you combine them, you actually get a very powerful sequence." He pulled away and smirked again.

Harry narrowed his eyes. So, Malfoy was _definitely_ using those two Runes... He would have to study them, just to prove to Malfoy he knew what they were. 

"What happens then?" Harry asked with a scowl. "Do they explode? Kill everyone?"

Malfoy chuckled. "Well, why don't we try out and see? I'm sure it won't be _so_ disastrous..." 

Harry felt Malfoy's hand from under the table on his leg. He felt a bizarre burning sensation crawl up his thigh. Was Malfoy planting some kind of curse on him? 

He jumped to his feet just as the Professor dismissed the class. 

"See you around, Malfoy," he said, as scathingly as he could, before running out of the door. 

* * *

Hermione was pissed by the end of the day. Harry had done seemingly everything he could to avoid her. Maybe he really did know, and he just didn't want her finding out?

But that was nothing like Harry. He was bluntly honest, often to a fault. He wouldn't be hiding that from her if he knew. Chances were, he was hiding it from himself with some bizarre delusion...

She would help him figure it out soon, though. She had consulted Dumbledore's portrait, and he had assured her he had just the thing to help. 

All she had to do was get him up to Headmistress McGonagall's office...

And maybe Malfoy, too.

* * *

"I'm _so_ close to figuring it out," Harry insisted at dinner. He had explained to his friends the events during Runes class, which for some reason had made both Ron and Neville bust up laughing. 

"Stop!" Harry exclaimed. "I just have to figure out what kind of destructive rune sequence they make..." He murmured thoughtfully.

"I think you're looking at it too literally," Neville suggested after he had finally calmed down. 

"No," Harry insisted, "he meant exactly what he said." Malfoy had definitely been alluding to his evil plot. What else could it be interpreted as?

"I think it's a metaphor, Harry," Ron suggested, suddenly sounding very serious.

"What for?" asked Harry. Were they finally listening? Helping, even?

"For the two of you..." Ron said slowly, giving Harry a meaningful look. 

Something swam in Harry's gut. 

"Oh, god," he muttered, burying his face in his hands. He thought he understood.

"Yes, yes!" Neville cried, beginning to clap. "He's got it!"

"Finally, you've figured it out," Ron said, sighing in relief. 

"Yes!" Harry exclaimed. Merlin, it all made sense... The eye contact, the teasing, the frequent interactions, even the physical touch...

"Malfoy thinks he can get me to join him in his dastardly plot!" he realized excitedly. "He thinks he can get me to join his side, does he?"

"No...." Ron groaned, bashing his head onto the table. 

"Not quite," Neville mumbled, staring at his plate dejectedly. 

Harry just stared at them in confusion. Weren't they just helping him? Why were they so sullen all of a sudden?

Hermione, who had been whispering with Ginny, finally spoke up. 

"Harry," she said, "Ginny and I believe you."

"What?" Ron demanded, standing up. "Hermione, no! You can't be encouraging him!" He sounded panicked.

Harry ignored them. "Yes, Hermione?" he asked with a smile. "See, I _knew_ you were the smart one!"

She rolled her eyes. "We all did," she replied. "Which is why I talked to Professor Dumbledore. He knows what you need to do."

"Really?" Harry asked, standing up. "What's that?"

Ginny looked up at him, a smile curling on her lips that he faintly recognized, though he couldn't quite remember what it meant. "You have to go to the Headmistress' office," she told him. "It will all make sense then," she promised, a little mystically.

"Gin!" Ron protested, looking at his sister desperately. "Not you, too! You're feeding his delusion!" 

"Shut up, Ron," Ginny snapped, glaring at him. She turned to Harry, and said, "And good luck! The password is 'Weeping Ash.""

Harry thanked her and Hermione quickly and ran out of the Great Hall, noticing then that Malfoy wasn't even at his table anymore. 

So, he must have been in the Headmaster's office, too. It was all part of the plot! Oh, Hermione was so clever!

Harry booked it to to the gargoyle leading to the Headmistress' office. Upon arrival, he immediately said the password. 

The gargoyle slid out of the way. His heart racing, he slipped down the staircase into the familiar room, only the decorations were all wrong. 

He was almost disappointed when he saw that Malfoy was not there. Only Professor Dumbledore's portrait, waiting patiently for him and smiling. 

"Hello, Harry," he said, as Harry stumbled up to the desk. 

"Professor!" Harry exclaimed. "Where's Malfoy? Has he done anything yet? What's he plotting?" he demanded in a rush, planting his palms onto the hardwood desk. 

"Slow down, Harry," the portrait of the Headmaster ordered. "Draco is not planning anything sinister that I know of."

Harry frowned. "Then what is it?" he pressed. "Is this a preventative measure? To make sure he doesn't plot anything?" 

"No, Harry," said Dumbledore, pushing his half-moon glasses up his nose. "This is an intervention." He paused a long moment, and added, "For _you_." 

"A what?" Harry demanded, crossing his arms. "Professor, I don't have time for this!" he protested bitterly. He should be chasing down Malfoy right now, not talking to a portrait!

"Harry, please. Take a seat, and listen to me." Dumbledore's voice seemed filled with... _pity?_

Harry narrowed his eyes, but eventually sat down. "What's this about?" 

The Dumbledore in the portrait began to pace back and forth, looking concerned.

"Your friends care about you very much, Harry," he said carefully, turning to look through the painting at him. "Lately, they have been worried about you and your mental state, as you appear to be struggling with Mr. Malfoy. _Again_." 

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Of course I'm struggling," he murmured. "Malfoy is taunting me. He knows something I don't, he's planning something...." He stared determinedly at the Professor, setting his jaw. 

"And you may be more correct than your friends think," Dumbledore said with a half-smile. "But not in the way you're suspecting." 

Harry grimaced. "I don't follow, Professor," he mumbled staring down at the lap. He felt like he was being lectured like a child. 

"Stand up, my boy," Dumbledore instructed. "I need you to find something for me." 

Harry stood grudgingly. "Yes, sir," he murmured. "What am I looking for?" He glanced around the room quickly. 

"Look in the largest drawer on the right of the desk," Dumbledore instructed. 

Harry complied. He pulled open the old, stiff drawer with a creak. He frowned when he saw its contents.

"It's the Sorting Hat," he whispered, fondly pulling it out. "What do we need this for now, Professor?" He held it up to properly observe the tattered old thing. 

"Nothing." Dumbledore laughed. "There should be something else there."

Harry placed the hat back down, and picked up the piece of fabric next to it. It was a shimmering, smooth scarf that seemed to be every color of the rainbow at once, shifting from emerald green to deep violet to crimson red and on and on across the spectrum. 

He held it into the air and it slid between his hands. 

"What is it?" His voice was filled with awe, and he forgot most everything except his curiosity. 

"That, my boy," said the Professor, "is the Scarf of Sexual Preference." 

Harry turned to face him. "What?" he demanded, confused and defensive. "How is this going to help?"

He knew exactly what he was. He was... He was...

Well, he wasn't sure. But he didn't want to worry about it just then! He had more important things to worry about--like Malfoy. 

"You're in a time of confusion, Harry," Dumbledore told him. "We all go through these phases, where our sexuality awakens--"

Harry cut him off. "Professor, please stop," he pleaded. "This is not what I want to hear from my dead former Headmaster..."

"Then perhaps you would like _me_ to help?"

Harry jumped as Snape's portrait became filled. He stood in the painting with a sneer on his face, glaring at Harry. 

"No!" he exclaimed. "Gods, no..."

The situation was getting worse and worse. Harry was extremely uncomfortable now. 

"Then put the Scarf  _on_ , Potter," Snape commanded in a voice so chilling that Harry almost jumped. "Unless you would like to hear the story of _my_ sexual awakening?"

"No!" Harry screeched. He had a feeling that story had to do with his mother, and he was _not at all_ ready for that...

He immediately wrapped the scarf around his neck. It wasn't warm or soft like a regular scarf. It seemed to slide around his shoulders, almost like scales.

 _Harry Potter,_ it said matter-of-factly.

 _That's me,_ he thought to it.

 _Let's see what we have here_... It began shifting through his memories. There were several memories that popped up that he had not been surprised by.

That first, wet, unpleasant kiss with Cho Chang... His discomfort when he took her on the date to Hogsmeade... The chaste relationship he had with Ginny... The fight they had about his "lack of reaction" to her...

And then stranger ones. Staring at the other boys in the Quidditch lockers. The bizarre feeling inside of him when Cedric Diggory suggested taking a bath...

His days spent obsessing over Malfoy. The strange twinge in his gut when he first caught Seamus and Dean snogging in their dorm... The burning electricty from when Malfoy had touched his thigh...

And more Malfoy. Gods, nearly everything to do with Malfoy! The strange feelings in his stomach, the way his heart raced, the way he kept thinking of him...

 _My, Mr. Potter,_ the hat said. _Someone has a crush, doesn't he?_

 _I do not!_ Harry protested, panicking. 

Then, the memories ceased all at once, and he could hardly brace himself before he heard the Scarf announce something.

"Homosexual!" it declared, loud and proud.

"W-what?" Harry stammered, suddenly crashing back to reality.

"A-ha!" Dumbledore exclaimed triumphantly. "Your friends were correct, then!"

"I knew it all along," Snape scoffed from his own portrait. 

"No," Harry murmured. "That can't be it..." He felt himself slide into his chair, though he was in a daze as he did so. But, it did all make sense...

He still had the Scarf on, he realized.

 _You tried to mask your feelings as hate and suspicion_ , it told him. 

"Shut up!" he shouted, pulling it off and throwing it onto the desk. 

"Harry," Dumbledore said softly. "It's perfectly alright to be homosexual. After all, I turned out fine." He chuckled, as if it were some grand joke. 

Harry stared up at the portrait blankly. "But... _shit_... Malfoy...." he whispered, burying his face in his hands. 

He had a crush on Draco Malfoy.

"Yes, well,"--Dumbledore choked a little--"I was in love with Grindelwald. My greatest foe."

Harry bit the side of his cheek. "I don't want to talk about anything right now," he whispered, collapsing into the chair. 

"Right. I'll give you some time." Dumbledore stepped out of the portrait, leaving it empty. 

"Congrats, Potter," Snape said drily, leaving him as well. 

Then, out of the shadows, someone spoke. 

"Don't look so glum, Potter," said Malfoy, walking up to the desk and sitting down on the corner of it. "I had thought you already knew." He laughed bitterly as he stared at Harry with a strange glint in his eye.

"What do you want?" Harry demanded, crossing his arms and glaring at him, wishing he couls scoot away. He supposed Malfoy had heard the entire thing, which was not good at all...

And the worst part was, Harry couldn't even accuse him of plotting to use it against him anymore, because it hardly seemed like Malfoy was up to something anymore. Thinking about it, he realized that the past few months of stalking were really just an excuse to watch Malfoy.

Doing ordinary things. Not plotting.

All Harry could do now was notice, for the first time with a clear and intentful head, how ridiculously attractive Malfoy was. 

"Watch," Malfoy instructed, with a bit of a tentative laugh. "Maybe this will cheer you up." He picked up the Scarf and slung it over his shoulders with a flourish.

Harry's eyes widened for a brief moment as he made eye contact with Malfoy. They waited a moment for the Scarf to speak. 

"Homosexual!" it declared immediately, albeit a bit wanly. 

Harry blinked. He was at a point where he was hardly surprised anymore, if not mildly satisfied. 

"Ta-da!" Malfoy sang, giving Harry a shrug and a dry smile.

His head spinning, trying to piece all the new information together, Harry just stared.

"I don't understand," he responded, getting out of the chair so Malfoy wasn't so near to him, perching there on the desk and grinning like a poncy git. An admittedly attractive poncy git. 

He shook his head. Why was he thinking that? What had the Scarf done to him?

"Why are you here, Malfoy?" he asked aloud, slowly backing away. 

Malfoy stood and took a few steps towards Harry. 

"Your friend Granger told me to come, and gave me your Invisibilty Cloak to hide with," he explained. "After all the flirting we've been up to... Well, how could I say no?" He smirked as he crossed his arms. 

"We were _not_ flirting!" Harry protested, taking several fast steps backwards to get away.

Malfoy moved even closer to Harry, striding with intention and something sparking in his eyes that definitely wasn't maliciousness or hatred. 

"Weren't we, Potter?" he questioned, making intense eye contact as he inched nearer. Harry could have ran if he wanted to, but something made him want to stay. He had forgotten he was still moving backward, though, and bumped into the wall. He stayed frozen to the spot. 

"I didn't think so," Harry replied quietly. 

Malfoy was inches away now. He bent down slightly to place his hand on Harry's thigh, similar to how he did in Rune's class. Harry felt that same tingling heat... Definitely not a curse. 

"I did," Malfoy whispered, his face inching closer to Harry's. He could feel his breath hot on his face when he asked, "Do you now?"

Something jolted in Harry's chest at the question. Whether it was excitement or arousal or paranoia, it jump-started his instincts. Before he could think, he shoved Malfoy off of him and was already halfway out of the room.

He stopped at the bottom of the staircase out, his heart suddenly thumping like he was back in battle. 

"Hermione shouldn't have gone to you," he snapped, clutching the railing of the staircase. "You're just going to use this against me."

Malfoy gaped and tried to come closer. His face was a mixture of shock and confusion, and Harry didn't want to notice that there was still nothing evil or conniving there. 

"Potter, you've got it wrong. I assure you--"

Harry cut him off. "I don't want to hear it, Malfoy!" he cried, dancing up a few more steps. "I can't do this right now."

He turned away from him then, and ran out of the room. 

* * *

Draco was left alone, dumbfounded, in the Headmistress' office. He had thought it would have gone better than that, after it's positive beginning. 

He made his way over to the chair in front of the desk and slumped into it. He curled his knees to his chest and realized he was still wearing the Scarf. 

 _He'll come around_ , it told him. _From what I saw, he likes you a lot._

"Tell him that." Draco scoffed aloud, pulling off the colorful, silky thing and throwing it onto the desk. 

"Tell him what?" Severus asked, appearing again in his portrait. 

Draco sighed dejectedly and placed his chin on his knees. 

"You shouldn't have come back so soon," Draco grumbled, glancing up at the portrait glumly. "We could have been doing anything in here." 

Severus rolled his eyes. "Clearly, the only 'anything' I could have caught you up to would have been alone," he snapped, disapproving. 

Draco shuddered. In the Headmistress' office? Never. Perhaps it was better Potter had run off anyway...

"He ran from me," he explained bitterly, dropping his feet back onto the floor. "What did I do wrong? Was I too forthcoming?"

Severus scowled, looking as though he wished to jump out of the portrait and slap some sense into him. 

"Of course you were," he growled, "but of course you weren't." He scowled bitterly, but meaningfully.

"You're not making any sense."

Severus sighed, and explained it to him. "No matter what you did, Draco, Potter still would have run. He's a paranoid _idiot_." Severus elaborated, nonchalantly waving a hand. 

"So, you're saying I'm hopeless?" Draco asked with a groan. Of course, he had to be the one gay wizard at Hogwarts that happened to think he was out to kill him. 

"If you're still bent on pursuing him, then, yes, I would say you are hopeless," Severus replied absently. "But I would not say your _endeavors_ are hopeless," he added with a smirk. 

Draco immediately perked up, watching Severus eagerly. 

"Really?" 

"Really," Severus huffed in response, rolling his eyes. Clearly, he did not approve. 

"Then what do I do?" Draco asked, leaning forward expectantly. 

Severus stared at him for a long moment, as if he had sprouted wings. 

"Draco," he said slowly, "if I had any success in winning over green-eyed wonders, Harry Potter wouldn't even exist." 

Draco blinked in realization. He had forgotten Severus' infatuation with Lily Potter. 

"But surely you know something?" He inquired. "Older and wiser and whatnot?"

"If only you had been so eager to take my advice when I could actually offer it," Severus opined, turning to leave the frame. 

"Professor, wait!" Draco called. 

But Severus had already gone. 

Draco sighed and decided to leave the Headmistress' office. She had told him she would be back in a half an our, and to take any "funny business" out of her office before ahe had returned. 

Too bad there hadn't been any funny business. 

* * *

Harry stormed his way back to Gryffindor tower, a mess of hormones and anger and frustration and despair. The Fat Lady was most displeased with the way he slammed her portrait shut, letting out a yelp of protest. 

He was glowering when he saw his friends, waiting by the fireplace for him with expectant looks. 

"How did it go?" Hermione chirped, looking up at him with all too bright-and-eager eyes. 

Ginny just smirked and waggled her eyebrows at him. 

He just scowled at them. "I'm not talking to either of you," he snapped, walking straight past them, going up the stairs towards the dorms. He heard Ron's loud groan as he hurried to catch up. 

Harry just made a beeline to his own bed. All he wanted to do was bury his face in his pillow and scream. 

But Ron clearly wasn't for that. 

"What's the matter with you, mate?" he demanded, crossing his arms. "What happened in your visit? Hermione and Ginny won't say a thing to me."

Harry just groaned and slumped his face into his pillow. 

"I'm guessing it wasn't what you were expecting." He sat down on the bed next to Harry. "Malfoy wasn't up to anything, was he?"

Harry rolled over with a flop and sat up. "No, he bloody wasn't. In fact, I think it's been Hermione plotting this _entire_ time!" He probably sounded ridiculous, but he didn't care. Hermione had betrayed him. She had--

 _Had she, though?_ A tiny voice in his head asked. _Was it so bad to finally realize you're gay. It would explain a lot._

"Harry, mate, you've got a blank look on your face, and it's worrying me. Talk to me."

Harry blinked and snapped back to reality. He focused on his friend's face, and, empowered by that little voice in his head, he spoke at will. 

"I was Sorted." The words came out in a blurt. Once they were out, he didn't know what to do with them. 

Ron blinked and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I know," he said, as comfortingly as he could. "That was seven years ago, though. You're just realizing that now?" He looked rather baffled, but also as though he were trying to hide his concern. 

Harry scowled. "I meant just now, Ron. I haven't gone mad yet."

Ron shrugged. "Just checking." He frowned. "But, still... What the hell does that even mean?" His eyes twinkled, and Harry had a feeling that he was imagining Harry getting Re-Sorted just so he could keep a closer eye on Malfoy.

He shuddered. He hoped that wasn't what Ron was thinking.

"It wasn't the hat," he clarified. "It was a scarf. The Scarf of Sexual Preference."

"You're shitting me," Ron deadpanned. 

"No, I'm not."

"Then what the bloody hell were you Sorted as, Harry?"

Harry took in a deep breath, afraid to say it out loud. But that pesky voice in the back of his head, or perhaps the part of him that was stuck in the closet, spoke up. 

"I'm gay, Ron," he said, meeting his friend's eyes. "One hundred percent homosexual." He took a deep breath, awaiting some terribly negative response.

Ron immediately broke out in a grin and clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Congrats, mate! You figured it out!"

"What?" 

Ron was acting like he had already known. 

"Oh, come _on_ , Harry. Half the school's already guessed it. Why else did you think the girls started leaving you alone?" Ron chuckled and winked at Harry again. 

His stomach churned. _Oh, gods. How long have I been looking like an idiot?_

"But I'm not flamboyant and I don't dress well," he protested. "What could have given it away?"

Ron's eyebrows raised. "Oh, poor innocent Harry. I think it was the gaping in the changing rooms that gave it away at first." 

Harry's eyes widened. He supposed he had gaped... but had he been so obvious?

"And then there was your whole obsession with Cedric Diggory..." 

That made him flinch, to hear Ron make light of the dead. But he had been so worked up about it, after all this time...

"But what about Cho Chang?" Harry wondered aloud. 

Ron laughed. "Harry, I know what it's like to have a crush on a girl. And whatever _that_ was, it wasn't it." He shook his head and chuckled again. "You described your kiss with her as 'wet,' and you weren't happy about it at all. Not to mention how uncomfortable you were when you finally took her for a date."

Harry flushed. Okay, so that was true...

"But Ginny. I dated your sister, Ron."

Ron just stared at him. "I know," he said slowly, "and I don't think _you_ want to know all the stories Gin's told me that disprove your heterosexuality."

Harry blushed even more, hanging his head. He would have to ask Ginny for the stories as evidence. 

But Ron wasn't done talking. "Apparently, one time when she tried to snog you, she couldn't get you to--"

Harry covered his ears, remembering the story. "Ron, stop. I don't want to hear those words come out of your mouth."

His ginger friend smirked mischeviously, looking suspiciously like George. 

"All right." Harry let out a long sigh. "But if none of that was real, what does an actual relationship feel like?" He felt a little cheated that he had wasted so much time not knowing. 

"Maybe if you weren't such a prick and you finally asked out Malfoy, you'd know."

Harry jumped as he heard Hermione's voice. He spun around and glared her. How unfair it was that she could sneak into the boy's side. 

To his surprise, Ron laughed. "I might've suggested the same." He stood up and kissed Hermione on the cheek, seeming to forget all about Harry for a moment. 

"Was I right?" she asked, addressing them both.

"As you always are," Ron hummed. "Harry is completely gay."

Hermione smirked. "I knew it."

Ginny poked her head into the room and grinned. "Ah ha! So I was right too." She winked at Harry. "Glad to know it wasn't personal, then." 

Harry took it at his own liberty to bury his face in his pillow and let out that scream. 

* * *

When Harry stumbled into the dining hall that morning, he was bleary eyed and tired. Despite the shower he had just taken, he was still very exhausted. 

It didn't help that when he sat at the table, all of his friends unanimously grinned at him. It was absurd. He ignored their excited whispers and grabbed himself a piece of toast.

He immediately took a bite, but realized that it was dry and dropped it into his plate. Gods, what was _wrong_ with him today?

He looked frantically across the table for his usual strawberry jam, but couldn't find it anywhere. The little pink pot was missing.

Dejectedly, he spread his toast with a pat of butter and decided that would have to do.

He looked across the dining hall, across the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, and over at that same spot on the Slytherin table. He didn't care how miserable it made him; watching Malfoy was normal, dammit, and he needed normal. 

He almost spit out his toast as he saw Malfoy put twice the amount of sugar into his coffee, and no milk.

Then, Malfoy looked up and met Harry's eye. He made a surprised face, and then stared at his cup of coffee. He did a spit-take all over Pansy Parkinson.

Her screech could be heard all the way across the hall.

But louder still was Draco's frustrated call of, "Where's the fucking milk at this table?"

Nearly every first year in the room covered their ears.

"You should go talk to him," Ginny said casually. "He seems just as shaken up as you."

Harry just glared at her.

"Have you seen the strawberry jam?"

* * *

Ancient Runes was torture. Malfoy was so close to him, and Harry finally understood all the sensations that were running through his body. 

Almost disappointedly, he noticed that Malfoy didn't make any suggestions with runes, or attempt at any other kind of flirting. 

Halfway through the lesson, Malfoy's leg started jittering. He had stopped taking notes and was scrawling something onto a spare sheet of paper. Harry watched him closely, wondering if it was to him.

 _What's your problem?_ It said, written out in looping script. 

Harry blinked, stared at it, and began scrawling on his own sheet of paper in response.

_I didn't know I was gay. It was a bit of a surprise._

He nudged Malfoy and jerked his head, motioning for him to look. 

"Starting on your autobiography right now, are we Potter?" he hissed under his breath. On his paper, he wrote, _I wasn't asking you._

Harry frowned. 

 _Do_ you _have a problem, then, Malfoy?_ He wrote. 

 _Yes_ , Malfoy scrawled, _I have a problem with you._

He triple-underlined the last word and gave Harry a pointed stare. 

Harry sighed. Typical Malfoy. 

_Sorry I was a git last night. Like I said, I was just in shock._

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, and began writing again. 

_Well, that's nothing new. You're always a git._

Harry huffed in laughter and bumped knees with Draco. They met eyes and smiled. 

Harry took a deep breath and decided he wanted to take a chance. 

_Meet me at the astronomy tower. Midnight. We need to talk. And bring more parchment._

When Malfoy read that, his eyebrows raised in interest. Instead of writing a reply, he whispered into Harry's ear, sending chills down his spine. 

"Bring your own bloody parchment." His lips lingered a fraction of a hot second longer near Harry's eat. "I want to use my mouth." Then he drew away, and the air next to Harry's head suddenly felt very empty. 

It was very hard to focus for the rest of the period. 

He had an idea forming in his head, and it had nothing to do with Ancient Runes.

* * *

 It was cold and starry on top of the astronomy tower. A few cirrus clouds were wisped across the sky, frosting over stars and freezing a ring around the room. 

Heated by a warming charm, Harry anxiously paced back and forth on top of the tower. He clutched his parchment to his chest, and he had a corked up bottle of ink in his pocket and a quill tucked behind his ear. 

He was beginning to worry Draco wouldn't come. Anxious, he stopped pacing, and stood at the edge of the tower. He looked out over the landscape, trying to soothe himself. 

The light in Hagrid's cabin flickered next to the Forbidden Forest, which was a tangle of dark knots in comparison to the flat, glowing stretcg that was the grounds, or the shimmering black and white that was the lake. 

"Nice view, Potter."

Harry jumped in surprise. He spun around and lost one of his pieces of parchment in the process. It fluttered behind him, off of the astronomy tower and to the ground. 

"Malfoy. You came." Harry's voice came out in a quiet breath. Suddenly, he was terribly anxious. Last time he had been up here with Malfoy... Well, his mentor had died. 

He took a sharp step away from the edge of the tower and towards Malfoy, whose cool expression could not mask the fact that he was thinking of that dark night as well. 

Which was why Harry needed the parchment. 

Malfoy cleared his throat. "How could I refuse?" He asked, taking a more graceful step towards Harry. He looked down at the parchment in Harry's arms. "Though I see you weren't kidding about the parchment. Don't tell me you've got some kind of kink?" He asked with a bit of a scowl. "Or perhaps this is your cover if anyone finds us in the act? Just break away and say we were studying?" A satisfied smirk fell on his lips, certain he had figured it out.  

"Who said we'd be doing anything kinky? Or not kinky for that matter?" Harry demanded, glowering at Draco. Even though he had finally realized his sexuality, he wasn't quite sure if he was brave enough to do anything yet. 

He needed to do this first. 

Malfoy frowned. "Well, I assumed given the circumstances, there would be _some_ kind of sexual--" he broke off when he saw Harry's intense stare, choking on his words. 

"Unless you really aren't interested?" Malfoy's voice came out in a whisper. His face hardened. "What do you want then, Potter? Revenge for me seeing what happened with the scarf?"

Harry winced, much more preferring when Malfoy wasn't being so harsh. 

"Relax, Malfoy," he ordered, slowly taking a seat on the ground. "Maybe later." He didn't clarify whether _later_ was referring to sex or revenge. That would be depending on the outcome of this exercise. 

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, but slowly sat down as well. "What _are_ we doing?" He demanded, sounding pissed but not quite as posh as normal. 

"Well," Harry said, "I brought my _own bloody parchment,_ so now we're going to write out our issues." He handed Malfoy a quill and several sheets of parchment. He pulled out the bottle of ink, uncorked it, and set it between them. 

Malfoy stared at him like he had just grown a pair of wings and a third arm all at once. He blinked, looking shocked. Then, pissed off. 

"Potter, I'm not about to do some fucking _feelings exercise_ ," he snapped, still staring at the writing utensils in a stupor. "What are we, Hufflepuffs?"

Harry took a deep breath in, and took another chance. 

"Draco," he said softly, deliberately using his first name, "if you want any of this to work, you'll do this."

Malfoy mumbled something under his breath about sentimental gits, but eventually sighed. "I still think we would be better off talking."

Harry smiled. "Well, I think you know I'm not the most graceful speaker in the world."

Malfoy let out a bark of laughter. "If that isn't the truth...." His voice trailed off as he stared at the paper. "Well, what do you want me to write?"

"Everything that you've felt for me in the past seven years," Harry whispered. He made sure to stare at Malfoy with his most intense, longing gaze. 

It worked. Malfoy broke. In a whisper, he said, "But that could take until morning." Then, he shook his head, probably reprimanding himself for being so sentimental. "I mean, what makes you think I have feelings for you, Potter? That this isn't some pure act of lust driven by--" he broke off, realizing the fallacy of his words. 

"You wouldn't be here if it were just lust," Harry pointed out, his voice growing quiet.

Malfoy scowled. "You could just have a really nice arse, Potter," he grumbled under his breath, but he was already holding the quill, preparing to write. He looked deep in thought for a moment, emotion swimmimg in his eyes. 

Harry's breath hitched, and before he could stop himself, he had leaned foreard to catch Malfoy's lips in his. 

Malfoy froze, but realized what was happening, and for a short moment, they were kissing. 

Harry broke away before it was too much, his breath taken away by the short contact. It was nothing like his other kisses, with girls. It wasn't wet or sorry or empty, just lips on lips. It had felt like a spark, a surge of emotion, a taste of another human being. 

"Call that a precursor to what's to come." Harry's voice was hardly more than a breath.

Malfoy's cheeks were flushed red. "I'll start writing, then."

* * *

Harry needed to write more for himself than for Malfoy. He needed to figure out if his friends were right, if he really did have feelings for Malfoy. 

Not that the kiss hadn't told him enough. 

So, he wrote and he wrote for hours. He wrote about every feeling Malfoy had given him, every thought he had about him, and he did it all objectively. 

It was hard work. Who could have blamed him when he huddled close next to Malfoy to keep on writing? He was cold and tired.

Malfoy's scribbling stopped for a moment, and he looked over at Harry. He let out a satisfied humph and continued writing, scooting closer to him as well. 

They worked like that for a few hours more, their legs eventually linking and their positions becoming more and more awkward as they attempted to maintain closeness while writing. 

The sky was just beginning to lighten when they both finished, exhausted and emotionally drained. They each had stacks of written on parchment and cramped up hands, soothed only by constant relaxation charms. 

"Whatever that was," Malfoy said, "it worked." 

Harry smiled and let out a sigh of relief. "Good." He gathered up all his papers and stared at them. Thank Merlin it was Saturday, he thought. He was exhausted. 

"What do we do now, after we pulled that all-nighter?" Malfoy inquired, apparently still capable of sexual humor in a state of exhaustion. 

Harry yawned and stood up, walking towards the edge of the tower. "We throw them to the wind." He still clutched the writing to his chest, unwilling to let go yet. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Malfoy cried, springing to his feet and leaving his manuscripts on the floor. He grabbed Harry's arms to prevent him from throwing anything overboard. "Don't I get to read them first?" He demanded. He stuttered a moment and took a step backwards, releasing Harry. 

"I mean... Don't do that! Someone might be able to read it!" He exclaimed, his voice hoarse from exhaustion but still pleading. 

Harry turned around and shrugged. "Then we can _incendio_ them," he suggested, holding the papers with one arm and pulling his wand out of his robes with the other. 

Malfoy froze, and for a moment Harry could see the wheels turning in his head, like he was considering something. Then, he snapped back to reality and grabbed Harry's wrist. 

"Don't," he said quickly. "Don't get rid of them. I do want to read them. I mean, if they say something... good." His eyes dropped to stare at the writing with a strange kind of need in his eyes. 

And for a moment, Harry understood. Once upon a time, Harry would have brushed it off as Malfoy being a narcissist. 

But after an entire night of thinking of nothing but him, of being with no one but him, of breathing in his presence and contemplating what he knew, he came to a conclusion. 

Malfoy--no, Draco--spent his life being the bad guy, thinking Harry hated him. He spent his life searching for approval, belonging; that was why he joined the Death Eaters, he reasoned. 

And in Harry's hands were pages upon pages of all the wonderful (and sometimes not so wonderful) things Harry had felt and thought about Draco. Pages and pages of a history rewritten through a rose colored lense and tinted by the affection caused by feeling his warm body. 

He didn't know Draco, not really. But he knew he didn't hate him, and something inside of him had always felt something towards him. 

"You can read them," Harry said, handing him the parchment. He thought for a moment about the fact that there was an entire page reliving the dread Harry had felt when he _sectum-sempra-ed_ Draco in sixth year, or another page about the betrayal he had felt when he learned that he was a Death Eater. 

But that didn't matter. Because there were also pages talking about how absurdly pretty Draco was, or how nice it was sitting with him up in the tower, or how happt he had been when he had testified at his trial and helped him go free. 

Draco smirked at him, taking the parchment and cradling it gently to his chest. "Perhaps I will later. Eventually." He tucked them into his robes pocket. "For now, I'm going to need them for written proof to justify what we're about to do."

Harry blinked. "What?" That had nothing to so with his suspicions.

Draco smirked and took Harry by the shoulders, pressing their faces close. 

"I am dragging you down to the Great Hall," he murmured, "and we are going to snog in front of the entire school." He pulled away and began to gather up his own parchment, still strewn on the stones. 

"Why?" Harry demanded, though he admittedly wasn't too reluctant in his exhausted state. He had to come out at one point, anyhow. 

Draco finished picking up the papers and stood up. "It's a fantasy of mine," he said quickly, frantically shoving the parchment pieces into Harry's robes. "You can read about it later." 

Then, in a mess of hormones, they both ran down to the Great Hall to make fools of themselves. 

Because they were fools. Fools in love. 

 


End file.
